The ramblings of a character
by Socken
Summary: A collection of one shot monologues by characters from various fandoms at various stages in the canon, usually at whatever the most up to date stage is at the time of publishing but occasionally i will skip back in time (just for fun). I'm usually more inspired by angst that anything else, sorry.
1. The Confessions of Dorian Gray

**AN: So this will hopefully be a collection of one-shot reflective monologues from many fandoms, updates will be sporadic at best, and either the quality may vary, or I will update very rarely.**

**Dorian on Simon**

I can't love him. I can't make it fair… but I still miss him, of course I do. He did an amazing thing for me, and I owe him, but the one thing I should give him that he deserves from me is something I cannot make myself do.  
I understand why he's gone, but I miss him. He taught me a lot… no, he didn't. I learned a lot about myself from him. It's not the same, and it's important that it's not. No one can teach me, I'm too pig headed and arrogant, hah. Maybe that's it, he refuses to fight back, won't raise his voice, and won't look at me with anything other than admiration. It hurts me to know that I can't be fair to him.

Maybe I should be glad he's gone. It would hurt me so much to see his face every day, see his love grow until he couldn't take it anymore, because I know one day he would. It would be too much, and he would go, one way or the other. Maybe he'd say goodbye, maybe he wouldn't… maybe he'd just vanish one day, clothes gone, no note… or maybe he would leave a note, on the fridge… does it matter. It won't happen. I wouldn't go looking for him. That's how I know. I know I don't love him. To look for him would be to prolong the pain for both of us, for me because it would for him.

You may think that is loving him, but it's not, I know it's not. I've felt love before, and it's more than just a shared emotion. Love is about time, and eternity, and the effect on the soul. HA! Soul! Me and my soul. That's how I know. He has a soul… I don't know anymore, which makes me think I don't… if I do its not mine anymore, it belongs to someone else… the devil perhaps.

What about Toby? Toby was different; to love Toby needs no soul, because there is no soul to love. IS, yes is, no past tense, I still love him, how could I not? Toby could teach me and I could help him. Killing has a price whoever and whyever it may be. I could feel it when he drank from me.  
Not at first, at first it was just the sensations, the smell, the sound, and the light… but later, I learned to keep myself, not to get lost in the beauty of it all. Especially at the end… instead, I looked at Toby, not physically, that was sadly impractical, but mentally and… almost spiritually. I am haunted by my demons, by the people I have killed, they are omnipresent and omniscient, but Toby. His victims are gone, and that brings its own kind of haunting. I fill the space in my head with everything, with new experiences and sensations for the sake of being alive. Toby just had a hole, an empty vacuum that sucked at him like a black hole. I filled that hole, I made it Gray.  
Toby was what I might have become if I had stopped to think, instead of running, always running away from my sins… no not my sins, I _revelled_ in my sins... I ran away from my regrets.

Oh Oscar, you were right. Regrets gather around me like Pavlov's dogs around a bell, I never thought they would. I'll never die, so I'll never run out of time to make them better, to correct my mistakes, and fix the hole. It's amazing what you can learn in an eternity. I can't go back as much as I thought. The world changes so fast. People vanish and… I'm left.

I've considered seeking out more like Toby, maybe that would be an appropriate 'good deed' to make up for some of the… not so good deeds I've done. Saving lives right? Think of it as charitable giving, like an advert on the TV, "Just two pints a month," "give blood."

I think I'm a little hysterical. Not totally mind, just a little. Best to keep a cool head at a time like this. I quit my job, if I wanted to change I needed to get away from them, maybe I should have brought them with me, helped them get clean…  
They wouldn't have wanted my help, and I'm not that good, or that strong. Like I said, I've left now, it's too late. I'm making new friends, we're not close, I never am… Simon was the closest anyone got and that was just a moment of…. Weakness? Strength?


	2. Chronicles of Syntax

**AN: The idea behind this isn't mine, I got it from a work by Alwaysthestars which can be found here: ** s/9296380/1/Into-A-White-And-Soundless-Place **It's really good and I recommend you read it. I've asked her permission for use of the idea, and so I want to thank her both for saying yes and beta-ing this for me **

**Kai on Daynah**

I'm cold. My back aches. There's a buzzing in my ears, only it's just in my head, which is nice, because there's nothing else in there.

I don't feel the need to cry. I don't particularly want to scream. My mind is empty; stuck in glitch mode. I don't know what to do- both in the moment and long term. There's this emotion in me somewhere that my brain can't identify. It's not grief, she's not dead. It's not guilt, I know as well as the next hyper-logical computer nerd that there's nothing I could have done to stop it.  
I suppose it's a sort of sadness.

* * *

There's an mp4 player in my back pocket. My fingers are tingling, and it feels strange not to have some screen to mess with. I want to be alert though, to the real world, so I sit on my hands.

* * *

I've taken to studying her, because it's a distraction from the grey mist inside my head.  
Her hand is curled, like a baby's fist. I was invited to hold the baby of some distant relative once. I declined, they're so fragile and I've never been one for looking after people, physically or emotionally. I daren't touch her right now. Again I'm scared I'll break something, like the baby.  
The bruise on her forehead is an angry red. I hope she's not angry at us, we got her into this... What are you Kai, some kind of artistic poet? You got her into this, and stop make artsy-fartsy connections! Her hair's all over the pillow, medusa-style. I really hope she's not angry at me. It's… _not my fault!_

It's not like I can tear my eyes away from her, I'm terrified she'll stir, or even wake up… and I'll miss the vital moment. That's it then, that emotion I can't identify, it's fear; not fear I recognise, I haven't been afraid like this before. I've been afraid of getting caught with my computer open at 4am, but that's just tense, I work carefully and I'm in control. I've been afraid for my life in the middle of a fight, but I'm full of adrenaline and there's so much going on I don't have to think about it, I keep busy I suppose… I've been afraid of that part of a scary film, when you know from the build-up in the music, and the heavy breathing of the protagonist that something's about to happen and it'll make you jump, but there's nothing you can do about it, you don't know when it will come, and you'll always jump anyway. That's what it is, you can only wait for the moment when it suddenly ends, there's a crash, she wakes up. Only in a film, you know for certain it's coming, you can't just sit where you are forever, and you know once it's over you'll be fine, you want to get it over with and move on. I want D to wake up, and to be better, I want to move on to the next thing because that's the thing with my brain. Waiting is not something for which I was granted a skill. The difference here is that it might not come. She might not make it.

That's something I fear far more. But the alternative is no short sharp shock either. She may stir, but that may be it. She might wake up, but she may not get up. No one dares examine the full extent of her physical injuries, for fear of doing more damage. And even if she wakes up and gets up and leads a normal life, what will she remember? What will she think? She hardly had a choice to join like the rest of us… scratch that none of us got a choice, but we were at least warned of what we were getting into before we were thrown in at the deep end. Her end was deeper than anything any of us know. It could be difficult. She could be different. She could be angry.

I don't know what I think, or what I want to say to her when she wakes up; probably something dumb about electric fish, or some insult about Hummingbirds. So full of tact aren't you?

* * *

Even if it's all OK, it's going to take a long time.


End file.
